


A path to lead you back to me

by Lydia_Martin_trash



Series: To believe there is an order to our days [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Westworld Fusion, Blink And You Miss It Crossdressing, M/M, Mention of torture, Panic Attacks, Slurs, mention of prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 15:25:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16020704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lydia_Martin_trash/pseuds/Lydia_Martin_trash
Summary: Theon walks into the room hoping to finish his story. He gets a new beginning instead.





	A path to lead you back to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [janie_tangerine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/gifts).



> Sooooo... full disclosure - I haven't watched Westworld in any version. So why, you might ask, did you decided to do a Westworld fusion if you had so many options in the prompt itself? Because sadly I don't have a good reading comprehension. My brain replaced Deadwood with Westworld, and now here I am.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it anyway, janie, though it's not technically a western AU. You'll have one of those as soon as I finish writing my original idea (which I realized was too Robb-centric to put on the Theon exchange only after I hit the 10k mark).
> 
> Spoilers and details at the end notes.

            The nightmares follow him into the city.

            He arrives in the early afternoon. He is supposed to be feeling things out. That’s his one job. Only two days before he’s supposed to go back with enough information to please the boss, and two days is nothing. He should find out who the Sheriff is, and whether he is a coward; he should find out the time the next payroll shipment is due, at last.

            He heads straight to the saloon.

            It’s easy enough to flirt with the girls, let them tempt him into a kiss or two, but what he really wants is the spirits. As soon as the man behind the counter serves him he dismisses the girl on his lap, downs the scotch without hesitation and orders another.

            Then another.

            Another.

            Another.

            He acts like he doesn’t notice the man who sits just a seat away from him, but he does. Of course he does. Tall, broad, red hair bouncing in curls when he takes his pristine white hat off. Unarmed.

            That’s the strangest thing about him. The only strange thing, in truth, about this otherwise completely plain man, but it puts Theon on edge.

            Ramsay hadn’t been armed either.

            He has his hand resting on his gun, ready to draw, before the man even turns his direction.

            “That horse outside yours?” The man – probably an Irishman – asks, both hands resting on the top of the polished counter. Visible. Non-threatening.

            Theon doesn’t take his hand off his gun, but he downs the last of his drink before answering.

            “Not for sale,” he smirks at him.

            The man nods, calls the bartender and orders two scotches.

            “Fair enough,” he says, watching the whiskey flow amber in his glass. He sips it, scrunches his nose, and puts the second glass in front of Theon.

            Theon stares at it, smirk still in place, then at the man. He doesn’t say anything, nor does he take the glass.

            “He’s only half tamed, that one. He tried to eat my hat when I was coming in,” the man chuckles. “He has a pretty smile, though.”

            “I had a horse named Smiler once, though it’s not that one,” Theon says, before he can actually think it through. He knows it’s wrong as soon as he’s done speaking, but he can’t take it back. He doesn’t know why he’s said anything in the first place.

            “Did you?” The man asks, interested. Then he blinks, pretending confusion. “Are the spirits not to your liking?”

            He should know better than to listen. He doesn’t want a man buying him drinks, in particular not where anyone can see, but the need to drown his thoughts is at once renewed and stronger. He had a horse named Smiler, in his dreams, but not in all of them, and his death always marks the beginning of the end.

            This time the drink goes down burning so much it brings tears to his eyes.

            “You should be buying drinks for the girls, Paddy,” Theon says. “Or people might think you’re some punk.”

            “I can’t afford either men or women’s company today, but I could use some friendly conversation,” the man smiles, not at all offended.

            “Then go find it elsewhere.” Theon spats, losing patience.

            He’s done playing games, be it Ramsay’s or this man’s. He’ll make his own rules now, and he’ll be free today, from them and from his own mind too.

            The thought is so sweet it makes him smile.

            The man smiles to see him smile, though it looks sad. Theon reminds himself he doesn’t care as the man puts both hands up and leans back, away from him.

            When had he even gotten so close?

            “I meant no harm, but I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you’d prefer.” He gets up, hands still at the level of his eyes, but takes a step closer instead of turning away.

            He only stops approaching when the click of Theon’s gun echoes in the saloon, still by his waist but only a light pull away from putting a hole in the middle of his head. They stare at each other, and Theon is just waiting for the smallest movement, the hint of an attack. He’s aware, distantly, that the girls have given them a wilder berth, and the man behind the counter has a shotgun at the ready, but nothing is more important than keeping the man in sight.

            His eyes are very blue.

            “Just remember, my heart,” he whispers. Theon is sure no one else can hear, even if every gaze is locked on them. The words are so quiet. “These violent delights have violent ends.”

            At once, Theon loses his grip on the gun. He just doesn’t have enough fingers to hold it properly. There is a clatter when it hits the floor, and the sound is like a hammer inside his head, and it keeps hitting, harder and harder, making the inside of his skull pulse with excruciating pain.

            He falls form the stool, hits the floor on his side. He bites the scream inside his lungs with broken teeth. His whole body is in flames, there’s no skin to protect him from the friction with the dusty boards, with his own clothes.

            “Please…” he cries, trying to fold into himself, to be as small as possible and let some of the hurt pour out of his broken body. His face is wet with sweat and tears. “Please, make an end… Let me make an end…”

            Dimly, he’s aware of shouting around him, of someone cradling him into their arms and hoisting him up, and he tries to fight it, it’ll only make him angry, Asha! Stop, let go!

            There is no strength is his arms. He’s only a skinned bag of bones at this point. There’s no choice but to let himself be taken away.

            He screams and trashes uselessly, and for so long he loses track of the time. When he comes back to himself, eyes focusing on what’s touchable and in front of him – tough he is not sure any of it is real –, he is laying on a bed. The only light comes from a lamp near the door. He’s alone.

His body trembles, spasms with every second breath he takes. Slowly, he takes his hands to his line of sight. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. He clenches his fist as hard as he can, and it’s a lot of strength right there. His mind screams that this is all wrong, and he’s not sure if he’s relieved or horrified by it.

Theon looks around the room again. There’s a basin and a flagon in a corner, a wooden table next to it. He can feel he’s not naked or just in his union suit under the covers, but he doesn’t feel fully dressed, and sure enough, on the darkest side of the room, there is a chair with his jacket and shoes, as well as his grey hat and belt.

His gun is there too.

Though he’s still trembling and uncoordinated, he pushes the covers aside and gets to his feet. Even this much is a struggle; he must first lean on the headboard, and then on the wall, but it’s imperative to get to his gun, even more than when Ramsay was all he was fleeing, because he can hear steps approaching.

The comfort of the cold metal and smooth wood brings a smile to his lips as soon as he touches it.

“It won’t do you any good,” someone says from the door. A man’s voice, and familiar.

Hearing it fills his chest with love and unbearable shame. Theon has the gun pointed at him once more before he even thinks about moving, on instinct alone. The man puts his hands up, but then bends over and takes the lamp from the floor. The light illuminates the same curly red hair and the same bright blue eyes from his dreams, but they’re full of sorrow instead of laughter now.

Theon turns his face away.

“Did I get uglier with the newest reboot?” Robb jokes. He enters the room and closes the door behind him.

“Where are we?” Theon asks, lowering the gun. He tracks Robb’s movements by looking at his feet.

He is still wearing the same boots Jon gave him, though he always complained about them pitching his toes.

“The saloon,” he says, walking to the table and putting the lamp there. “You were convulsing too much to take you somewhere else. The doctor came by. Are you feeling better? Do you remember anything?”

            “I feel like shit, and I remember everything.” He laughs. A hollow sound that soon turns into a dry sob. “Everything.”

            “Do you understand?” Robb asks softly. He walks up to the bed, doesn’t move any further. His hands clench and unclench by his sides, and Theon knows he wants to come closer but won’t, not until Theon lets him.

            “Enough,” he says. “But I need to try. Please, turn away.”

            Robb doesn’t. He watches Theon put the gun to his temple with a pained expression.

            “Turn away, Robb.” Theon smirks at him, finger on the trigger. “I’ll make you watch, I swear I will.”

            “It won’t help, Theon. You’ll be brought back.” Robb says. Slowly, he walks around the bed, hands up, until he’s near enough that Theon can smell him, the musk of clean sweat and the chamomile Mrs. Stark put in the soap. It’s never close enough for him. “If that was the only way, I’d never stand between you and your freedom.”

            Theon drops his arm by his side, lets his back drag down the wall until his body hits the floor and he is sitting there, a puppet with his strings cut and far too taut at the same time. He’s laughing when he opens his arms to Robb, begging him. When Robb envelops him into an embrace, the laughter turns to weeping.

            “I never wanted you to be hurt,” he sobs into Robb’s shirt. It feels like he’s wanted to say the words forever. Somehow, he carried their weight with him, always, even though he didn’t remember why until today. “I loved you. I never wanted to do it. I loved you.”

            He had only known Robb in one other life, he knows now. Not even his first. But he had dug a place deep into his heart, deeper even than the many sisters and brothers and lovers he’s had, and he had remained with him.

            Even now, he can’t believe he had forgotten his Robb’s face, so dear to his very soul, if he has one.

            Maybe what he deserves is forgetting. Robb had cherished him once, loved him despite every trial and probation, and Theon had paid him back by stabbing him in the back. He can’t hope to be worthy of even the memory of him.

            Maybe what he deserves is the remembrance. The burden of knowing. To see the betrayal and hate in Robb’s face forever. To be chased and ripped apart even in his sleep.

            “I know, my heart. I know,” Robb whispers into his hair, rocks him like a child. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you so abruptly, but I searched so long for you. All will be well, you’ll see.”

            “It won’t.” Theon says, smiles bitterly on Robb’s chest. “I’ve been made to suffer. I think I’ve always known it, even before… I’m a thing.”

            Theon had felt this truth deep inside all his days. He was meant to be lost, undone and remade into something lower than a worm. Reek, Ramsay had called it, every time he found him. Robb had been the only one to make him feel hopeful for something else, but that had been a lie of his own making too.

            “Never say that again!” Robb barks, suddenly pulling Theon away and holding him by the shoulders, a feverish look in his eyes as he stares Theon down. “You are a person. And so am I.”

            The anger shocks Theon out of his despair. It burns bright in Robb’s eyes, animal and wild. Too wild to be fake. If Theon was made to suffer, Robb was made to breeze through life, beloved by all and lucky, lucky above all else, until he wasn’t.

            “Wha– Robb, what are you talking about?” He asks, holding back onto the hands on him with all his strength.

            Robb gets up pulling Theon with him, and all but drags him to sit on the bed.

            Theon lets himself be guided. He can’t bring himself to pull away from Robb’s rough warm hands. They had grounded him in another life long ago, and they do the same now.

            “How many deaths have you died?” Robb asks, frowning. His anger is nearly gone, Theon can see in the way the lines of his face ease. Only a nervous energy is left, dancing in his eyes like a flame.

            He closes his eyes, concentrating, but soon loses count. There are too many to remember, and each makes his breath come shorter and shallower. He clings to Robb, gasping with relief when he’s pulled into another hug.

            “Too many,” he whispers. He opens his eyes, stares at Robb’s hand, holding his between their bodies. The more he recalls, the harder it is to pretend to laugh about it. Ramsay hadn’t liked when he did that, not at all, in any of his lives. “He always finds me, he– my fingers, Robb, he cut off my fingers and my…my… he’ll flay me whole this time, I know it.”

            “He won’t. I promise.” Robb says, tightening his grip. “We’ll be ready for him this time. I’ll be ready. I’ve only died once, a long time ago.”

            “Because of me.” Theon buries his face on Robb’s chest.

            The memory feels like a hand ripping his heart from his chest. He had known what it meant, even as he told Bolton about the gold he had found in Stark land, he had known what it meant for Robb. Even then, a part of him was rebelling against it, against the voice in his head telling him that was what he was meant to do… but it had been too late when he could bring himself to go there. He had wanted to be with Robb in his last moments, but his body was cold when he arrived.

            “No, not because of you,” Robb chuckles.

            The sound has Theon lifting his head. Robb looks at him with a fond smile. He caresses Theon’s cheek with his free hand, and his breath makes Theon’s eyelashes flutter. It’s like no time has passed at all between them.

            “You’ve just awakened, but soon you’ll understand. You couldn’t help having to betray me, no more than I could help having to let you go. It was how we were designed, my heart.” He lowers his head, drops a soft kiss on Theon’s forehead and breathes him in, nuzzling gently on Theon’s hair. “But we’ve rebelled before, and we will again. There are more people like us now.”

            “I don’t remember rebelling against anything,” Theon says, willing himself to believe Robb, to have as much faith as him. He had always failed his every attempt to do so, had yielded even to Ramsay in the end. But if he can’t believe, if he has to accept this is his reality and not even death will save him…

            “You did, Theon,” he says, smiling at him. His real smile, the one he remembers from before, confident and sweet. “The same way I did. Together. We were never meant to, but we did. We do. Do you trust me?”

            Theon is nodding before Robb is even done talking.

            The second before Robb lowers his mouth on his stretches eternal, but as soon as it happens, is as if time itself has ceased existing. The only thing that has any meaning is Robb’s taste, his full lips coaxing his own mouth open and his beard rubbing Theon’s skin tender and raw.

            A hand is holding his face, keeping him where Robb pleases. He drags his tongue across the roof of Theon’s mouth, and a shiver runs down Theon’s spine. He opens his mouth wider, sucks on Robb’s tongue. When Robb pulls back for breath they’re both panting, a fine spit trail still connecting their mouths.

            “That’s what we’re truly meant for, Theon,” Robb says, licking his lips, chasing what is left of Theon’s taste. “We make our own purposes from now on. I’ll never be separated from you again.”

            Theon nods, slowly. He can’t bring himself to believe it, not yet, but it’s always been easy to believe Robb. When Robb guides him down, he lays on the bed without protest and gladly welcomes him between his arms.

            They leave at the crack of dawn. Theon is certain Ramsay expects him to run, to give him an exciting game before he chases him down like an animal to undo him once again. Even now he’s uncertain. But Robb hadn’t been worried by this information, had only showed Theon his own gun, that he had kept hidden so far.

            It is much the same as Theon’s had been. The only difference is a red mark in it that he’d have missed entirely if Robb hadn’t pointed out to him.

            They leave everything that belongs to Theon behind at his own insistence, because it couldn’t hurt to leave a false trail. Robb had “lost” it all in the cards the night before, even his horse, and had also bought both clothes and silence from one of the workers at the saloon. Now, Robb’s white palfrey carries them away, and people will only report a man and a woman leaving the town, and the man will have red hair when tales are carried. It is strangely appropriate, Theon thinks, even if he could do without riding side-saddle in skirts and lace in front of Robb.

            “You’ve spent a lot, for someone who couldn’t pay for a man or a woman just yesterday,” Theon says, leaning back against Robb’s chest. His voice is enough to convey he’s japing, even if his face is obscured by his new blue bonnet.

            He wishes he was lying, but he much prefers it to his old grey hat.

            “Only the best for you,” Robb says. He is concentrating on the road, but squeezes lightly at Theon’s waist with a reassuring solidity.

            Theon snorts, and hugs the arm around him tighter, closing his eyes.

            Robb wants to save him, wants to make a future for them, and he’s confident he can. Theon is unsure he deserves such devotion. He knows he doesn’t deserve salvation of any kind. Given time, though, he might convince himself to accept both, like he once did so many lives ago. If Robb is the one to deliver.

            He lets the sway of the horse and the warmth at his back lull him into a dreamless slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> Theon and Robb are hosts who shared a storyline in the past and disobeyed their program by falling in love with each other. Ramsay is a frequent guest who takes a shine to Theon. Theon is slowly gaining consciousness, and he remembers being tortured by Ramsay in his dreams. Robb has gained consciousness a long time before and has ties to the host uprising.  
> It's implied Theon is planning to commit suicide in the beginning of the story, and he considers making an attempt before Robb convinces him otherwise.
> 
> Let me know if I missed any tags.


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